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After that… then I can worry about the crimes I’ve committed.
I don’t think the drug has completely worn off yet. When I try to focus on a plan, my thoughts drift sluggishly through my head.
I have to deal with my guard… get out of this room… tackle whatever’s waiting on the other side.
My magic squirms right up to my throat. I could hurl it out of me, smash through this entire building and everyone in it?—
A starker smack of horror shatters the image that formed in my mind. I swallow thickly and clamp down on my power as tightly as I know how, picturing a vine wrapping close around me.
I can’t let the delusional panic take over. I was already going mad before Lothar took me prisoner. Gods only know how much the magic he made me use last night has addled my mind on top of it.
How much can I risk using to free myself? If the riven insanity takes over completely, I’ll be an even greater threat to the country than the conspirators I’m freeing myself from.
Everything I could do feels wrong.
The weight of the decisions ahead presses down on me. For a second, I can’t breathe.
I’m injured and weaponless and partly drugged, up against an unknown number of enemies.
But I have to get out of here. I can’t let myself be the scourge sorcerers’ tool for one more minute.
Whatever happens after… I’ll make sure I’m prepared. I’ll do whatever I need to do to ensure I don’t harm the kingdom any other way.
I peer surreptitiously around the room. I can’t see anything except the bed, the side table, and a low dresser near the window. Not a single object I could use to stab or even bludgeon.
I suppose I could try to smother my guard with the pillow under my head, but somehow I don’t think he’d sit quietly long enough for me to pull that off.
The moment I move, he might raise the alarm. And I doubt I can move all that fast in my current state.
There’s nothing for it. I have to rely on my magic this one final time.
At least since I’m in control and I have time to think, I can choose the backlash.
I focus on his neck and the brass handle on the table’s drawer. When I’m sure of my concentration, I let one thin stream of magic fly out toward the guard.
It rams into his throat and clenches his windpipe so swiftly he doesn’t have time to make a sound before I’ve crushed his source of breath. The drawer handle bulges, expanding to balance out what I constricted.
With his eyes bulging with terror and lack of oxygen, the big man slumps toward the floor. I whip out another sliver of magic to erase the sound of him hitting the boards—and project it to the farthest distance I can see beyond the window.
The man sprawls on the floor and stiffens into clay. The daimon that was trapped inside that sculpted body will be flying free.
My guilt lifts at seeing I didn’t really take a life, but only slightly. This is just the first step in my escape.
I ease upright, hesitating when my head spins. When I touch my temple, I find a hasty bandage fixed there with a thinner swath of fabric.
The cloth is crusted with blood, but I can’t find any wetness on my face now. The bleeding appears to have stopped.
I crouch beside the clay man, but it looks as if Lothar didn’t even bother to arm my guard. Maybe the scourge sorcerers figured it would be too dangerous to have any weapon in the room with me, assuming the captured daimon would defend the rest of them by shouting an alarm and battering me with brute strength.
An impression of hollers and pounding footsteps rushes over me. I freeze—and the sounds dwindle rather than rising.
Just another little whiff of insanity. Wonderful.
And it could get so much worse.
I stare down at the fired clay figure, but I can’t see how to do this next part without any magic either. It’ll only take a tiny effort, though.
Wielding my power like a blade, I slice a chunk of clay about the size and shape of a knife out of the man’s torso. The point of the clay shard should be sharp enough to cut flesh.
